


Cheque Please

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Character Bashing, M/M, Pansy's POV, zacharias smith bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:38:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12872550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: It’s best not to cross Pansy Parkinson. Unless you’re Harry and Draco, who seem to benefit.





	Cheque Please

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter characters are the property of J. K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Written for HD Cliché Fest 2015.
> 
> Original Notes: Dear prompter, thank you! I could not get your prompt out of my head. Hopefully this contains at least a hint of amusement. Huge thanks to the wonderful neural_ignition for the beta!

Pansy is at table 14, in the middle of taking a drink order from a silver-haired man and a woman who appears to be at least 20 years his junior, when she notices a young man about her own age approaching Astoria at the hostesses' podium. Pansy is aware that the next table will be hers, and she likes to size up all of her patrons before she begins serving them. 

She listens, without taking her full attention from table 14, to the new arrival’s short discussion with Astoria.

“Hi. I think I have a reservation.” Pansy inwardly scoffs at his apparent uncertainty concerning his own dining arrangements. 

“Name, please?”

“Oh, Smith. For 7 o’clock. Now, I guess.” 

Pansy doesn’t have to look to know that Astoria is running a manicured nail down the list of reservations on her podium. She seems to have found the name, because it’s not long before she’s asking the man―Smith, or else one of Smith’s party, Pansy supposes―to follow her into the large, rectangular dining room.

From her vantage point in the far, left corner of the room, Pansy can see the man fully once he moves to follow Astoria and is no longer partially obstructed by the podium. She’s not close enough to get a good look at his face, but judging from his ensemble (generic grey trousers and a collared shirt sans tie) and his unsure demeanour, she’s confident in her hypothesis that he’s more than little out of his element in the posh surroundings. In her experience, that means he’ll either tip spectacularly well to prove that his middle-classedness doesn’t make him cheap, or else abysmally, if he’s unashamed of his bourgeois frugality. She’ll make a firm guess once they’ve interacted a bit.

Repeating back the orders she’s received from Ms May and Mr December, Pansy goes to collect their drinks, but notes that the hostess leads her new patron to a table in the other corner at the back of the half-full room, near the doors to the kitchen and the loos, respectively.

Considering how out of place he looks, Pansy’s certain he’s not dining alone. He’d never choose this place himself, she’s sure. Expecting at least one other person to show up, Pansy decides to wait a minute or two before heading over to introduce herself and take drink orders.

She reaches the bar near the front of the room, and as looks for the bottle of wine table 14 has requested she feels a light touch on her shoulder. “Pansy, table 23 is yours.”

“I saw, thank you, Astoria. Is he waiting for a group?”

“No. Just one person.” Astoria smiles at her and makes her way back to the her podium.

Pansy takes the chilled red to table 14 and casts a few glances across the back of the room as she’s in the process of pouring. Each time she does, her new guest is looking around the dining room. He seems to be taking in its sparsely appointed, polished wooden walls and numerous small, round tables, all of which are covered in the obligatory white table cloth. 

Wine poured, Pansy heads to table 23, stopping briefly near the kitchen doors to snatch a silver pitcher of water from the shelving unit that houses water, glasses, cutlery, napkins and the like. She still hasn’t taken her eyes off of her unsure diner, so she notices the moment that something catches his meandering gaze. She follows it, and promptly lets out an amused “pfft” sound. She’s unsurprised to find that he’s looking at Draco, not because he’s _obvious_ , but because a lot of people stare at Draco, whose tall, spare frame, light blond hair and aristocratic features are set off perfectly by the black fabric of his uniform―a tuxedo. She’s not jealous. Her own tuxedo, tailored to fit her small waist and ample bust, flatters her figure too. 

Draco, whose gait appears somehow to have taken on more swagger than usual, has clearly noticed the attention also.

From the direction of her approach, Pansy’s walking straight toward him, and, were he not still staring cow-eyed at Draco, he would know this. He seems to be well and truly caught up in whatever daydream he’s entertaining though, so she clears her throat to announce herself. He startles a bit, but does a respectable job of hiding it. With his attention now on her, she introduces herself. “Good evening, I’m Pansy, and I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to hear about the wine list while you’re waiting for your companion?” 

Now that the room no longer separates them, Pansy continues her scrutiny more closely. The way he’s dressed is certainly nothing to write home about, and his specs are beyond help. He must be a Beatles maniac; there’s no other explanation. Truly though, it’s his hair that takes the biscuit. It might be a lovely black, but it’s an unmitigated disaster. The fact that he’s really quite attractive underneath it all just makes it worse, in her estimation. Yes, he’s on the short side, but his fashion choices squander his broad shoulders, what appears to be good muscle tone and his striking green eyes. He might never be _tall_ , dark and handsome, she thinks, but surely two out of three isn’t too difficult to achieve?

Her practiced eye performs this analysis in no more than a second, and he responds to her question.

“Best wait for my date,” he answers. “I don’t know anything about wine.”   
Pansy is not at all surprised by that, but she’s a professional, and says nothing untoward. After all, he hasn’t been rude, and he may well be a good tipper. The jury’s still out.

“Some water then, while you wait,” she responds, and pours him a glass. He thanks her.

She suspects, but does not turn to confirm, that he starts looking about the room for Draco once she leaves.

-X-

Pansy refills the water glass of Draco’s increasingly fidgety admirer twice before his date arrives. Before she leaves him the second time to empty the mostly-full pitcher in the glasses of her nearest diners, his body language and the increasingly deep furrow in his brow tell her that his growing annoyance is rapidly edging out his discomfort with his surroundings. Despite his annoyance, he looks relieved when Astoria finally leads a dirty blond man in a three piece suit over to him. If Pansy’s honest, the feeling is mutual. She’s never fond of dealing with someone who’s been stood up. 

He stands, extends a hand and begins to introduce himself, but his greeting is cut short when the newcomer shakes the proffered hand and speaks over him. “You’ll be Harry.” His voice sounds rather bored. And nasal. Clearly this is a blind date, and one that is not starting out with much promise. 

As the dirty blond releases the other man’s―Harry’s―hand, he looks him up and down. “I see you decided against dressing up for the occasion,” he adds flatly.

Pansy allows herself a quiet snort; she can’t deny she shares the sentiment. Harry doesn’t seem to appreciate it, however. She can tell that his answering chuckle is a forced attempt to get the evening back on track. 

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t realise-” 

“Zacharias Smith. I’m a little late,” he interrupts again. That’s a bit of an understatement. Not that Pansy herself is likely to arrive at an engagement anything less than fashionably late. 

Considering the newcomer’s leanness and blond hair, Pansy half expects Harry to forgive the comment and display some warmth toward him. He had more or less revealed his type earlier. But he doesn’t look particularly interested. Pansy supposes that his middle-class sensibilities are off put by the other man’s pronounced aura of superiority. Or perhaps it’s his comically upturned nose. 

“So, Harry, what do you do? After shaking hands I’d wager you’re not a man of leisure.” Pansy appreciates a well-aimed barb; however, she’d tread a little more cautiously if she were trying to pull a good-looking bloke she’d already left waiting around like a bell end. Harry’s forehead wrinkles as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He doesn’t seem to know how to respond, so he ignores the comment and just answers the question.

“I’m a copper, actually. Have been for-”

“Oh, a man in uniform,” Smith interjects, sounding slightly less bored, though worryingly more cheesey. “Of course, the Commissioner is a dear friend of the family…”

Despite Pansy’s certainty that table 23 offers the most promise for the evening entertainment-wise, her other diners really do need seeing to. She rids herself of her now-empty water pitcher on her way to pick up some orders from the kitchen.

-X-

When she returns to table 23 for the first time since Smith’s arrival, Pansy rather suspects that her appearance might be a brief respite for Harry, who is still listening to his date chatter about his social circle.

“Now that we’re all here, what can I get you gentle-” 

“I say, do you make a habit of interrupting your patrons while they’re in the middle of a conversation? Sorry, Harry. Where was I?” Pansy feels herself stiffen. Some painful honesty may not be out of place, especially when the target is as hopeless as Harry looks, but out and out rudeness is not on. That is, not when it’s directed at her. The man doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just declared war.

“Excuse me, I’m sure,” she forces out, making the falsity of her words evident and putting on a phony smile. “I simply assumed that your companion might be thirsty for something other than water by now.” She doesn’t emphasise the last two words. She doesn’t need to.

As she lets the tension begin to build, what she assumes is a bourgeois aversion to calculated social manoeuvring prompts Harry to ask for a gin and tonic with a grateful smile and a light tone.

“Fine, fine…” Smith concedes. “You can bring me a martini.” 

“That will be just a moment, gentlemen,” Pansy says cooly, and leaves to procure their drinks. Harry may not know it, but effectively siding with her has earned him her allegiance. Well, as much of it as she’s willing to give to a stranger. That, and a spit-free drink, of course.

-X-

“Gin and tonic and a martini,” Pansy says as she sets the drinks down in front of their respective owners. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

“I think I’d like-” Harry begins, but he’s cut off before he can get anywhere, when Smith, who has just taken a tiny sip of his drink, spits it loudly back into the glass.

“Ugh. I hope you’re not expecting me to drink that. It’s far too weak. Did you make this? Don’t you know how to make a simple martini?”

Harry looks physically pained by the display, and casts Pansy an apologetic look. This tells Pansy all she needs to know about his tipping habits. She pegs him as an emotional rather than a strategic tipper―the sort that bases the size of his gratuity on how much he feels he’s put out the waitstaff over the course of an evening. 

For her part, Pansy finds her patience put to the test. Or, rather, she would, if she’d had any to begin with. Steadying herself with the knowledge that she’ll see this pompous twat get his comeuppance before the night is through, she plasters on her fakest customer-placation smile and places the backwashed-martini back onto her tray. “I am sorry about that, sir. Of course I’ll get you another. I’ll even have the bartender mix it this time, rather than just winging it myself as I usually do.”

Smith begins to splutter after her, but she’s walking away. It’s no concern of hers. Or, at least, it soon won’t be. 

She looks around the room for Draco, and, finding him nowhere, detours to the kitchen.

-X-

Pansy finds Draco picking up some orders in the kitchen as she’d hoped. He’s just grabbed one of their largest trays to begin loading up several plates that belong to a sizeable group.

Placing her own small drink tray down on the counter to free up her hands, Pansy grabs two plates from in front of Draco and places them on his tray. “Let me help you with that. You keep it balanced and I’ll put the rest on.”

Rather than thanking her for her assistance, Draco narrows his eyes at her. “What do you want?” 

Pansy doesn’t even consider keeping up the pretense of the selflessly helpful friend. She and Draco are as thick as thieves, they take care of one another, but they’re hardly altruistic.

“Take table 23.”

“Why?” 

“Just take the table. I want you to snatch the blond twat’s date. If you can, that is.” 

“Of course I can,” he responds instinctively, before adding, “if I want to, I mean.” Draco pretends that he has any choice in the matter, but Pansy trusts implicitly in his mile-long competitive streak and his truly spectacular vanity. Anything that follows will be nothing more than formality.

“Just a moment.” 

Draco hands Pansy his half-loaded tray and walks to the kitchen doors, opening one just a crack. With their proximity to table 23, it’s only a moment before Draco gets a closer look at his admirer, makes a small noise of amusement and returns, inspection complete. 

“I suppose I can manage another table. You’ll pay me back in kind, of course.” There’s no question in his tone.

Pansy’s desire to see that stroppy bastard humiliated overcomes her inclination to try and get the best terms out of their deal. Instead she simply nods and asks, “It’s his eyes, isn’t it?”

“Well it isn’t the ensemble, I’ll tell you that.”

“Imagine my surprise. They haven’t ordered any food yet. The blond just needs a martini. Do yourself a favour and ask Theo to make it stiff.”

Draco nods, and takes up his tray once more. Pansy leaves him to it. 

-X-

Once Draco has presented his group with their meals, he heads for the bar to get the drinks. Pansy is busy serving a couple of MPs and their partners, but she can’t help but notice when Draco assumes a position at the bar, leaning on it in such a way as to offer up a pleasant view of his bottom if one were sitting, say, in the far right corner of the room. He doesn’t ruin the façade of nonchalant grace by looking at table 23, but that doesn’t stop Pansy. Smith appears to have resumed his droning, but Harry, whose eyes are greedily taking in Draco’s show, looks decidedly less concerned about his date’s terminal dullness.

-X-

Invested in the outcome, Pansy keeps an eye and an ear on table 23. She actually feels a little giddy with anticipation when Draco arrives at the table for the first time. 

“Hello gentlemen, my name is Draco, and I’ll be serving you for the rest of the evening. I have a martini here, for you I believe, sir,” he sets the glass down in front of Smith.

“This is a proper martini, I hope. Not watered down like the one your friend tried to serve me. And why isn’t she serving us? I can see she’s still here.”

A smirk reaches Pansy’s lips as the gormless twit rudely points at her. 

“She thought you might prefer my service,” Draco directs his response to Harry. “So,” he continues, looking once again at Smith, “is that martini more to your liking?” 

The man takes a cautious sip and swallows this time. “Well, this one seems to have alcohol in it, so that’s a start, I suppose.” He looks almost disappointed that he can’t seem to find fault with it, but he keeps sipping nonetheless.

Draco looks back at Harry, who seems to be amused by the exchange. “I made sure it was stiff.” His eyes briefly eyes dart to Pansy to acknowledge her contribution.

“I’m sure we won’t need to return this one,” Harry chimes in cheekily. For the first time since his arrival, his discomfort appears to be melting away. He’s sitting up straight and there’s a definite glint in his eye.

Pansy realises that this has the potential to work out better than she could possibly have imagined. If she’s reading the changes in Harry’s demeanour right, he’s positively game.

“Do you have any questions about the menu before you order?”

Harry, who’d been ready to order a few minutes ago when Pansy had been serving them, takes the opportunity to keep Draco’s attention. “What do you recommend? I’m a little out of my element.” His tone is one of good-natured self-deprecation. 

Smith makes an attempt to reclaim his date’s attention. “I come here regularly, Harry, and I suggest the fillet mignon.” Pansy seriously doubts that his snobbish attempt at chivalry will save him now.

“The duck is a favourite of mine,” Draco adds when the interruption is through. “It’s the chef’s speciality.”

“Sounds good to me.” Harry hands his menu to Draco to finalise his choice.

“And will it be the fillet mignon for you then, sir?” Draco questions.

“I too would like the duck, since it comes so highly recommended,” he answers pointedly, jabbing his own menu toward Draco aggressively.

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but we’ve just run out for the evening.”

The man’s face begins to redden, contrasting badly with the dirty blond of his hair. He takes in a breath in what looks like preparation for a tirade. “Think you’re funny do you?” he starts, but he is stopped from working himself into a proper rant when Harry leans across the table to offer false comfort.

“That is too bad, but you can taste some of mine,” he offers with a smile. He looks so earnest that Pansy thinks that his desire to play along must be equally matched by a genuine wish to avoid an out-and-out scene.

“Oh please, Harry, you can’t seriously believe-”

“Let’s not let an unfortunate shortage of duck ruin the evening.” He shoots Draco a quick smile and affirms that they’ll have one order of the duck and one of the fillet mignon. Draco nods in affirmation and leaves to give their orders to the kitchen. 

Smith looks as though he wants to force the issue, but with Draco no longer there to hear his complaints, he concedes to Harry, and returns to telling him boring anecdotes that highlight how well connected he is. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that a neutral expression has replaced the smile on his date’s face and that his nods and noises of affirmation are robotic.

When Draco reemerges from the kitchen and begins a round of his other patrons, Smith is once again so caught up in the sound of his own nasal voice that he doesn’t notice the bespectacled eyes in front of him following Draco from table to table.

-X-

“...of course, a constable like yourself won’t know the Commissioner personally, but you must take my word for it, Harry-” Pansy hears Smith pause his story about the Commissioner’s golf game, or dinner party, or orgie or whatever when Draco addresses them.

“I see you’re still working on that gin and tonic,” he begins, clearly speaking to Harry, “but here’s another proper martini for you, sir. And, this comes compliments of the chef.” Pansy hears Draco place the drink and the kitchen’s offering (which, she is certain, he had to beg one of the sous chefs to prepare in great haste) down on the table. She finishes checking up on the couple celebrating their anniversary at table 12 and turns around so that she can see as well as hear.

“How forgetful of you,” Smith scoffs, but his mouthful of martini rather diminishes the impact of his scorn. Unsurprisingly, he seems unaware of this, and so he continues, “you’ve not brought plates along with it for us to share.”

Draco looks directly at Smith and makes a condescending noise of understanding―the sort a parent might make before correcting a child’s mistake. “Actually, sir, the chef sent this out for the diner who ordered the duck.” As if to punctuate this, Draco uses a single finger to nudge the plate a short distance closer to Harry before looking at him, smiling genuinely, and continuing. “The _chef_ ,” he emphasises the last word, “has stuffed and baked these dates with chevre and sour cherries. He feels the flavours will complement your meal nicely. Enjoy.”

Draco purposefully walks away as though he’s on a catwalk, and so he misses the wonderful visual that is Smith furiously downing the rest of his drink and smacking the empty glass down on the table. He hasn’t lost his hearing any more than she has though, so when Smith starts griping, she’s sure he’s enjoying it every bit as much as she is.

“I can’t believe the dreadful, ghastly service here tonight. I’ve dined here many times and I’ve never been insulted like this. In fact, Harry, I think we should leave.” He picks up steam as he goes, getting louder and louder. Pansy suspects that the two triple martinis he’s downed are contributing to his volume. He rises from his seat, and some of the other guests are beginning to stare in his direction. 

If he leaves now and Harry doesn’t follow him, Pansy’s sure that Draco’s pulled. But instead, her unlikely ally exceeds Pansy’s earlier expectations by attempting to placate the other man. 

“Come on, Zacharias,” he intones with a false smile that seems to fool Smith, but doesn’t make it past Pansy’s well-honed bullshit radar. “I don’t see why you’re so worked up. You never even wanted the duck to begin with, the kitchen’s just sent out something special, you seem to be enjoying your martinis and our servers have both seemed professional to me.”

“You don’t understand, Harry. You’re a constable; you don’t frequent places of this calibre. You don’t know what to expect.”

The utter snobbery of the comment ruffles Harry, but only for a moment. Still, Pansy is too astute to miss the furrow that makes a brief appearance on his brow as disbelief flashes across his eyes. If Harry were one of her friends, trained from childhood in the art of subtle manipulation, Pansy would take demerits even for these small hints of uncontrolled emotion. However, Harry is not one of her friends, he’s a bourgeois do-gooder―a bloody copper―who, despite having soured toward a wank date, showed when he arrived that he’s used to wearing his heart on his sleeve. So, while he may not have been able to quash his instinctive reactions completely, Pansy has to give him some credit for shaking them off as quickly as he does and redoubling his efforts to mollify his date. In fact, she’s fairly certain that the other man’s insults have strengthened Harry’s resolve to assist in taking him down a peg or two.

Predictably, Smith doesn’t seem to have picked up on any of these hints about his date’s true feelings toward him. And, with his emotions back firmly under control, Harry dives back in.

“Why don’t you finish telling me that fascinating story about your father and the Commissioner playing the ninth hole while we wait for our meals? And, if you’re really bent out of shape about it, I’ll swap my duck for your fillet mignon.”

The last bit might be overkill, Pansy thinks, because as soon as Harry shows even an ounce of interest in his snooze of a story, Smith looks like he’s itching to finish it. 

“Oh, alright,” he says indulgently after releasing a long-suffering sigh. He sways a bit as he resumes his seat. “I think I was telling you the bit about the Commissioner’s foreign caddy…”

Topping off a water glass, Pansy represses a laugh. Having pegged Harry as a steadfast defender of the downtrodden after he sided with her earlier, Pansy thinks he must really detest his date’s particular brand of snobbery. After all, not just anyone would endure this crashing bore simply in order to watch him receive passive aggressive abuse from a waiter. She supposes gaining opportunities to flirt with Draco must also be a strong motivator.

-X-

As Smith continues to drone on with no end in sight, stopping only to draw sips from the third martini Draco provided after he’d downed the second in one swallow, Pansy begins to wonder whether, if nothing prevented him, he’d talk himself to death. 

Draco doesn’t seemed concerned about this. He’s too busy sending sultry looks at Harry when Smith can’t see him. Whether he’s clearing away Harry’s appetiser plate, topping off their water or serving other diners, he and Harry remain locked in an ocular dance.

Finally, Draco comes out with their entrées. Actually, Pansy notices, he comes out with only one, and it doesn’t look like steak. After asking table 7 if everything is to their liking, she retreats to the kitchen so she can surreptitiously watch the action unfold from the safety of the door, which she props open a crack with her foot as she leans in.

“The duck is ready, sir. I’m very sorry to let you know,” he continues, turning to Smith, “that there was a small problem with your fillet mignon.”

“Oh, what now-” Smith tries to interject, but Draco pushes onward.

“The chef is preparing a new plate for you as we speak, sir. It shouldn’t be long at all. It has his full attention. If you like,” Draco says, now to the table at large, “I can take this back to the kitchen to wait for the new plate.”

“And I’ll just wait for the duck to come back cold while your chef botches the steak a second time, shall I?” 

“I assure you that your meal will be of the highest quality when it arrives.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Harry agrees cheerfully. Frankly, Pansy thinks, the black haired man is looking pretty twitterpated.

“Fine. Just bring back the duck when my steak is ready.” 

“Actually, I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind. I expected to have eaten a half an hour ago.” And, though his tone is affected to sound off-handed, Pansy hears Harry’s obvious criticism of his date’s lateness.

Smith seems to hear it too. Whatever manners he has seem to abandon him for a moment, as he shouts “FINE!” and actually makes a grab for the plate before Draco has a chance to put it down. 

Now in stitches, Pansy continues to watch from the kitchen as Draco allows the fuming patron to snatch the plate and bring it to the table with a clunk that would have sounded more emphatic were it not for the thick linen table cloth.

“Another drink while you wait, sir?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Harry responds, and Draco takes away the empty martini glass in order to replace it with a full one.

-X-

When the fresh martini arrives a few minutes later, Draco enquires after Harry’s duck.

“Oh, it’s absolutely delicious! I’ve never had anything so good,” he answers with relish. “I’m not kidding,” he turns his eyes on Smith for a moment and lays it on thick, “this place was a great choice, Zacharias.”

“The chef will be delighted to hear it. Our duck comes from a local farm not far outside the city. It’s raised with the highest standards-”

Draco is cut off when Smith slams another quickly-drained martini glass down on the table and announces in a well lubricated voice, “I’m going to the loo.” 

An idea suddenly occurs to Pansy, and as Smith pushes himself up and out of his chair, demanding to be reminded where the toilet is, Pansy takes the opportunity to stroll past the toilets and, as surreptitiously as possible, swap the frame that reads “femmes” for the one that reads “hommes.”

She moves out of Smith’s way as he passes her. As soon as he’s through the loo door, she hastily swaps the frames back and hurries to introduce herself to some patrons Astoria’s just placed at one of her tables. For a few moments, she actively focuses on the table at hand. She knows that if she thinks about Smith’s face, increasingly blotchy from bursts of rage and too-strong martinis, the stranglehold she currently has on her mirth will be lost.

Pansy’s just introduced herself when she hears a commotion coming from the back of the room. 

Coming from the toilets, in fact. 

As she asks the diners if they have any questions about the menu, she looks to the toilets in time to see Smith get chased out of the ladies’ loo by several flustered and indignant women about her mother’s age. Pansy makes out the words, “pervert” and “peeping tom” amidst the hue and cry the ladies are raising, and gleefully watches Smith fruitlessly attempt to explain to them, in his superior but now-drunken way, that this is absolutely not his fault.

Pansy realises that her attention has completely left her table, but doubts it matters much at this moment, since all eyes are on the scene at the toilets.

She, along with everyone else in the room, looks on as Draco walks over to break up the melee. Everyone can hear him telling the affronted ladies that he’s sure it’s an honest mistake. And, though they seem loath to let it go, they don’t stop Draco from escorting his charge back to his table. 

Pansy excuses herself and heads intentionally to a table close to number 23 so that she doesn’t miss a thing. 

“Perhaps you need glasses, sir?” she hears Draco suggest as Smith takes his seat. Harry jumps on board.

“Could well be. I’m hopeless whenever I need my eyes checking...walking into all kinds of things I oughtn't.”

“Precisely,” Draco agrees. “And glasses can be very fetching.”

“That’s quite enough, I think,” Smith spits out through his clenched jaw. “Shouldn’t my meal be ready by now?”

-X-

Pansy is bringing dessert to a German couple when she notices Draco carrying the long-awaited fillet mignon. 

“And here we are, sir―your fillet mignon. Our apologies, again, for the wait.” Draco sets the fillet down in front of Smith and looks directly into Harry’s green eyes as he adds, “I hope you find it worth the wait.” 

Smith looks up at him, and his mouth twitches in a way that suggests to Pansy that he’s about to reprimand Draco for shamelessly flirting with his date right in front of him, but before he can get that far Draco wishes them “Bon appetit,” and departs with a spring in his step.

Smith watches Draco’s retreat, gaping for several seconds as his steak cools on his plate. As Pansy makes once again for the kitchen to watch from her favoured crack in the door, she sees Smith turn back to glare at Harry before diving into his rant in earnest.

“Never in all my life have I been treated with such flagrant disrespect. How dare you just sit there and let him flirt with you, as if I’m some imbecile who won’t notice. From a common waiter, I expect no less, though I did think that this establishment looked for a higher quality of help. From you though-” 

It’s clear that he has more to say on the subject, but Harry seems to have reached his limit, and cuts him off. 

“Excuse me, “a common waiter”? What is that supposed to mean? The people who work here―people who work for a living―are no worse than you, Zacharias. More to the point, it’s you who’s acted rudely, from where I’m sitting. With your airs and graces. What is it you do, anyway, that has given you the impression that you can treat perfect strangers any way you like? I didn’t want to fight with you, but I don’t fancy spending my evening with someone who acts like a total snob and doesn’t even have any substance to back it up.”

Pansy, who’s firmly ensconced in the kitchen, not willing to miss a moment―her tables can wait an extra minute or two―agrees wholeheartedly with Harry.

When Smith responds, his volume is loud enough to bring the attention of everyone in the room back to him. The magical combination of rage and too-much-to-drink adds a comical slur to his words. “Oh, and I suppose the waiter who’s caught your eye has substance, does he? I’ll have you know that my mother plays bridge with-”

But who plays cards with his mother, Pansy never finds out, because his latest bout of posturing is cut short.

“You know what?” And it’s Draco who poses the question as he walks toward table 23, abandoning the one he’d been serving. “Here’s a little advice, from this “common waiter”: no one’s impressed by secondhand name dropping―I can tell you from experience. And if you can’t tell that you’ve been boring your date to tears since you arrived half an hour late, you’re as dumb as you look.”

If the shade of Smith's now purpling face is any indication, he’s incandescent with rage. He seems, for the first time all night, to be beyond words. Beyond insults. Pansy guesses that he honestly has no idea how to cope with being schooled in social graces by someone he considers beneath him. 

When the furious man fails to respond, Draco turns to Harry and gives him a coy smile. “I can show you a better time that this uptight twat,” he nods his head toward Smith. “What do you say?” And he holds out his hand. 

Harry grins and begins to say something that sounds dangerously close to “cheque please” before Draco silences him by moving his outstretched hand into the universal gesture of “stop.”

“Don’t let’s start off with a total cliché,” Draco advises, bringing his hand back to its former position, still waiting for it to be accepted or declined.

Harry just grins still wider at Draco and clasps the hand in his own. As he shakes it, he says simply, “I’m Harry, and as long as you’re not the worst kind of toff, I’m game for anything.”

“Harry,” Draco begins, and he seems to relish speaking the other man’s name, “I can promise you that I am the very _best_ kind of toff.”

Harry laughs openly at Draco’s words. To Pansy it sounds well worn and easy.

Draco and Harry are still holding hands, just looking at one another, when Smith regains the power of speech. He begins to say something, but it’s really of no consequence when Draco ignores him completely and locks eyes with Pansy, still rooted to her spot behind the kitchen door.

“Seems I’ve got to run, Pans. You don’t mind covering my tables do you? You do owe me the favour of my choice, after all.”

Before she can respond one way or the other, Draco’s back is to her and he’s escorting his ill-gotten date out of the restaurant, off in the direction of, well, she doesn’t know exactly. She’s confident, however, that it’ll be a damn sight better than bringing Smith his gigantic bill.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s reader's choice why a bunch of posh-as-fuck Muggle!Slytherins are working at a restaurant. Are they the owners? Super secret spies? A group of disinherited society cast-offs? You decide.


End file.
